FAKING IT: THE WORLD OF LUCHA LIBRE

Away from the combat arenas of boxing and MMA, a niche cadre of British fighters are grappling for position among Mexico’s flamboyant lucha libre performers. But behind the sequined curtain, who are the men in tights? MH travels to London’s Bethnal Green to find out what motivates the so-called ‘free wrestlers’ and what could be in it for you...

You can’t fake the chops. You have to hit people hard so the crowd knows it’s real. You’ve got to make it look brutal.

A half-naked man in a skimpy monkey outfit is grabbing his crotch, leaping about, jabbering. Next to him, a long-haired Viking in tight leather trousers applies red make-up to his eyes.

Malik, an Asian from Ealing who likes to dress up as an evil Mesopotamian demi-god, is shadow-wrestling, sweat dripping down the small of his back. Another man, going by the name of ‘Lagarto del Plata’ – or ‘Silver Lizard’ – is tugging on the long tongue protruding from his reptilian mask.

Backstage in the cramped dressing room of East London’s famous York Hall, these men are but a few of the curiosities to be seen. Together, they are Lucha Britannia, a local amateur wrestling troupe gathered here tonight for the UK’s annual exposition of Mexico’s numero uno rough-house pastime, an event billed as ‘The Greatest Spectacle of Lucha Libre’.

Upstairs, in another grubby dressing room, the professional Mexican and Brazilian wrestlers who have flown to London for the weekend are completing their pre-match routines. Zumbi, a toned Brazilian from Sao Paolo with unfeasibly long nipples, is limbering up by doing handstands and aggressive press-ups. Next to him is Silver King, a household name in the lucha libre business thanks to his appearance as the villain in the middling 2006 Jack Black film Nacho Libre. To see the 48-year-old wrestler slouched on a bench in singlet, baseball cap and reading glasses, is to be reminded that 2006 was a long time ago. But as he dons an ominous black mask and leather cape, suddenly, he becomes regal. “It’s fake leather,” he says, disappointedly.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise – everything about lucha libre is fake, and that’s the whole point. This isn’t sport so much as theatre, albeit an extremely physical, violent and camp version thereof. “Imagine the lovechild of Hulk Hogan and The Mighty Boosh,” says Greg Burridge, one of Lucha Britannia’s bosses. “Throw in a bit of Benny Hill and you’re about halfway there.”

FREEDOM FIGHTERS

Spanish for ‘free fight’, lucha libre is enormously popular across Mexico, with fans following the fortunes of their favourite luchadores in the same way your better half (and perhaps even you) remains glued to Bake Off. The fights are fast-moving and acrobatic, with wrestlers sporting masks and colourful outfits. In common with reality TV or soap opera, the fights follow a loose, pre-determined routine – loose being the operative word. Combatants regularly leap or get thrown out of the ring, literally into the lap of spectators. The basic rules – no kicks to the groin, no pinning to the ropes, no attacking the referee – are often ignored, to the delight of the crowd. All in, it’s a bizarre hybrid of gymnastics, boxing, circus, slapstick comedy, superheroics and pantomime.

Most matches feature four varieties of wrestler: the técnicos are the goodies (or faces), the rudos are the baddies (or heels), the luchadoras are the female wrestlers, and the exoticos are the flamboyantly camp members of the troupe, who often perform in drag. Lucha Britannia’s very own exotico is Cassius, AKA Louis Paule, a 22-year-old from Wood Green, North London. Immensely excitable, he fights in hot pants and masquerade tassels hanging from every possible vesture.

Kitsch ’90s TV series Buffy the Vampire Slayer was the gateway drug that first drew Paule to wrestling, before WWE-themed video games pulled him firmly into its grasp. “I became utterly obsessed with WWE as a kid,” he says. “When all my friends grew out of wrestling, I just carried on.” Paule loves the combination of sport and theatre that lucha libre offers, and has already attracted a significant fan base thanks to regular shows at the nearby Lucha Britannia venue (where fights are billed as “10,000 volts of sexy mayhem”). “Lucha libre is a sport in the sense that you’re doing something you have to train for and it’s physically tough,” he says. “But it’s also theatre in that everyone’s dressed up and in character. It’s the best of both worlds. In the ring, I feel like me times 100.”

But you don’t get to become 10,000% of yourself without taking the occasional battering. “I will have a very red chest later because it’s unavoidable that someone will chop me [wrestling talk for a slap across the torso]. You can’t fake the chops. You have to hit people hard so the crowd knows it’s real. You’ve got to make it look brutal.”

ALTER EGOS

One luchador who’s worked hard to embody this primal brutality is Malik, the sometime Mesopotamian deity, a youth worker from Ealing who holds the unique position of being the only Muslim in Lucha Britannia. “Wrestling gives me a platform to represent Muslim people in a positive way,” he says, flexing. Like Paule, he also discovered lucha libre through his childhood love of American wrestling. His father – who was once a professional bodybuilder – gifted Malik the genes he now utilises to grapple and throw his opponents. With his body uniformly shaved (“It makes my muscles look good!”) and his name in hieroglyphics sewn onto his shin pads, he cuts an imposing figure. There’s one kicker, though: tonight’s wrestling match falls during Ramadan, which would normally require him to fast during daylight hours. “Today is an exception,” he explains. “There’s no way I could perform without eating. I would probably faint.”

That’s no exaggeration. Lucha libre matches involve sequences (or spots, as they are called) of choreographed jumps, kicks, strikes, tackles and takedowns which would test the fitness of any professional athlete. One of the fittest of the British wrestlers here tonight is Thomas Dawkins – AKA Pure Britannico – a 29-year-old personal trainer from east London. “Before this I did MMA and drama, so it was a natural progression. When training, I mainly focus on calisthenics and bodyweight exercises for flexibility. I don’t really lift weights.” Like most of his Mexican counterparts, Dawkins’ bond to both the sport and his equipment is routed in a mixture of tradition and superstition – the mask, for instance, is sacred; the face something that must remain hidden. “It’s a respect thing,” Dawkins explains. “If people found out that Pure Britannico is a personal trainer from Havering, it would break the whole illusion.”

Despite admiring the theatricality of his unorthodox weekend job, Dawkins’ partner, an actress, is no fan of wrestling. Like most hobby-beset better halves, she’s forbade Dawkins to talk about it in the house. But unlike the long-suffering wives of the model train set, she also has to contend with her husband coming home with blackened eyes and split lips. “We do injure ourselves,” Dawkins shrugs. “We’re not afraid to hurt ourselves for our art.” He points to a bandaged finger, sliced open recently during a practice match. Wrestling on a twisted ankle, he explains, is also a common occupational hazard. When it comes to his day job, Dawkins is careful to pre-warn new clients that their PT may well turn up with a black eye. And like any sportsman, a wrestler will always be juggling one or two niggling injuries. “You get very good at learning how to fix yourself in this game. You’re always somewhat in a state of rehab.”

SMACK DOWN

As show time approaches, York Hall is thronged by almost 1000 fans. The MC, a moustachioed chap from Missouri, bellows in a fake, somewhat hackneyed Mexican accent to ramp up anticipation. Before making their entrance through a mist of dry ice, with huge neon letters spelling ‘Lucha Libre’ at their backs, Zumbi and Silver King are getting a final pump on with press-ups. In the corridor, the Lucha Britannia franchise owner is giving his wrestlers a pep talk. “Lucha! Lucha! Lucha!” they chant. Then, with rituals completed, the wrestlers are sent out to do battle.

Later, when it’s all over, Pure Britannico sits in the dressing room, blood flowing over his chin. Out in the ring, a flying kick caught him square in the mouth, knocking him to the mat. The gaping V-shaped split to his top lip leaves no doubt as to whether the injury is real or fake. The scratches across his chest are a shining reminder of the power of the ‘chops’, while cuts across his back and – bizarrely – what looks like a love-bite on his neck, show even the most patriotic of British fighters cannot wander into Mexican territory without returning both bruised and dazed.

He stands, unsteady on his feet but still pumped on adrenaline, and offers a breakdown of his injuries. “I was knocked out three times, I think,” he says. “Twice I was slightly concussed, and the third time I was knocked out cold. I remember coming round as the ref was undoing my mask to let me breathe.” There’s no qualified medic here tonight, so an eager York Hall employee with a first aid kit will have to do. Concerned, one of the promoters asks Pure Britannico if he needs stitches. “Steri-Strips should do the job,” he replies, admiring his injury in the dirty mirror. “Then I’ll have a hot salt bath to get the bacteria out of my skin. And some yoga to stretch before bedtime.”

But first he has to drive back home to the suburbs; then, tomorrow, back at his day job as PT, he’ll have to face his clients. By then his split lip will be ugly and swollen. And it won’t be his last.

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